


You May Entertain Angels Unaware

by reluctantabandon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: I'm rubbish at tags sorry!, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Sexy Times, Slash, Snogging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-21 02:25:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reluctantabandon/pseuds/reluctantabandon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For mrshudsontookmyskull's prompt for the Nov. 2012 Johnlock Challenges Gift Exchange: "John is Sherlock's guardian angel."  Yeah, strayed a bit.  In a manner of speaking.</p><p>The characters herein belong not to me but to the immortal ACD, and to Messrs.  Moffat and Gatiss, long may they live to torture us.  </p><p>Un-beta'ed, un-Brit-picked, and thrown to the wolves!  My first post on AO3, hurrah!  And please be gentle!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AStudyInAlgedonics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AStudyInAlgedonics/gifts).



Chapter One: Wings

John’s halo was tarnished again. It happened fairly often, but he still didn’t like it; he liked his halo to be shiny. It was more fitting, more orderly. 

Before he had gone out that one day, the day he thought of as THE day, he had shined it. He liked to use a microfiber cloth and a little gun oil. It suited him, he thought, to give it a regular polish rather than rely on a fleeting virtuous thought, as other angels he knew did. He had been—was—a soldier, after all, and a bit of good old elbow grease was good enough for him.

When he had met Mike Stamford walking and was eventually brought to St. Bart’s to meet his potential flatmate, he was glad he had taken the time. He felt that sudden click in his chest, in his head, like a puzzle piece fitting into place, or the slide of a handgun clicking home. And once he had decided to move in with Sherlock, had raced breakneck through the London streets after a mad cabbie and a possibly madder consulting detective (only one in the world), he knew, at last, that THIS was where he belonged. Safe in his own bedroom at 221B that night, he gave the general direction of Heaven a double-thumbs-up and slept, at last, the undisturbed sleep of the just.

There were things about himself that John didn't share with others readily. He knew that Sherlock, being who he was and indeed what he was, the world's only consulting detective, would be curious. And that was an understatement at the very least.

John knew his hair always seemed to have a soft glow, even when it wasn’t directly lighted. It was the halo. John kept a very close rein on it, of course. It never happened in darkness, neither in semi-darkness, twilight, or, for example, in an unlighted supply closet in Bart’s. But if there was any light to be had, even the most oblique, John’s head seemed to attract it. John knew it fascinated Sherlock, and he could just see the questions buzzing around in the detective's head; did John’s hair follicles imbue each shaft with particular light-conducting qualities? Was it the color, the texture, the cut? John did his best to distract his flatmate with another problem when his attention seemed too fixed on John's tawny head, and he did a good job of it.

Also, despite the fact that he’d been in the RAMC, John was quite modest. He always wore a vest, even under his bathrobe. Sherlock tended to walk around the flat half-naked as the mood struck him, and Sherlock never found that it bothered John in the slightest. John, however, never seemed to get comfortable to the point where he’d, say, come out of the bathroom in just a towel. 

It was the wings, you see.

Sherlock didn’t know about the wings, not yet at least, and John wasn’t about to bring them up. John felt that his wings were private, and up until now he had only shown them to the people with whom he’d been…intimate. It was early days yet with Sherlock, and although John had hinted at his interest on their first evening together, Sherlock’s terse “married to my work” had set a boundary that John was not yet willing to cross.

Not yet.

Wait, angels are supposed to be androgynous, right? Neither male nor female? All holier-than-thou and righteous and aboveboard and messenger-of-the-gods? John would laugh. He was, most decidedly, male. He’d prove it if you asked. He had had relationships with women and men. Said relationships involved attraction, romantic love, and lots of raunchy, wild, no-holds-barred sex. “I’m an angel, not a bloody Saint,” John would probably say, and giggle.

About the wings, though. John didn’t like to remove his shirts in front of Sherlock because of them. No, it wasn’t as if he had feathers sprouting out of his back, as if his shirt would bulge and rumple under the pressure of pinion and sinew and bone. 

It was the tattoos.

When John had first come down, down to Earth, he had decided it would be a good idea to get rid of the wings. Of course, he couldn’t literally get rid of them, but he could make them pretty much disappear. They had lain against his back, first, when he had folded them there, close, all still and shining, vanes soft in the light. Then, as if they were disappearing, but not-- as if they were receding, but not-- they slowly vanished. Not completely, because wings really can’t do that, but leaving nothing behind but traces of their existence, marked out in what looked like ink on John’s pliant skin. They looked soft, still, did those feathers, each lightly outlined in incredible detail, with shading and contour as subtle as the most meticulous of pen-and-ink drawings. John’s partners and his Army mates always exclaimed when they first saw them – “How realistic!” or “Cor, mate, that must have taken bloody forever and cost a fortune.” After a few minutes’ exposure, however, the novelty wore off, and John could pretty much guarantee that a person would only comment once on his tattoos.

He wasn’t so convinced that Sherlock would forget.

Such painstaking attention to detail, such scrupulous cataloguing of every particular, was, to John’s knowledge, unique. No one else in the world had Sherlock’s ability to see, to observe, and consequently to deduce. John wondered if the subtle angelic aversion limned into his skin would be enough to deter Sherlock’s boundless curiosity. If anything, he thought, it would spark it.

And then there was the attraction.

At first it was mild, just a humming awareness on the edge of consciousness. A look held just a bit too long; an unnecessary brush of fingers; an invasion of personal space that was extreme even for Sherlock. The looks slowly became more heated, the innuendo broader and more frequent. The tension between them ebbed and flowed, receded and expanded, but grew relentlessly until at times it was all John could do not to push Sherlock steadily, inexorably, against a wall and scorch him with kisses.

And so, he kept his shirts on. For a very subjectively long time. Until one day, he didn’t.


	2. Gather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John thinks Sherlock might like what he sees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where we get into the smut. Not TOO hard just yet, but be warned, "Angels" is PWP.
> 
>  
> 
> As always, the characters herein belong not to me but to the immortal ACD, and to Messrs. Moffat and Gatiss, long may they live to torture us.

Chapter Two: Gather

That day, John's halo was tarnished again, after a particularly vicious killing and a long, involved, and tortuously slow trudge after the killers. John sat on the edge of his bed and cleaned his gun, and while he was at it, he pulled off his halo and gave it a quick rub before replacing it. He was usually careful, but somehow, this time, he got a big smear of gun oil down his front and had to change. And so it was that he was standing there, vest pulled up over his chest, when he heard a rapid clatter on the stairs and Sherlock burst in.

“John! John, I—“ Sherlock stopped, and it seemed to John for a moment that all the air had been sucked out of the room. John pulled his shirt the rest of the way off, tossed it in the general direction of the hamper, and raised calm eyes to Sherlock’s.

“Remarkable!” Sherlock breathed, and moved in a slow circle around John, eyes moving rapidly to take in every detail of the apparent tattoo. John stood patiently, waiting for Sherlock to conclude his scrutiny. He had plenty of time, after all, and maybe – just maybe – this would go somewhere at last.

Sherlock’s gaze was too detached, however. John knew that the interest there was purely intellectual, for the moment at least. He decided to up the ante a bit.

“So, did you actually want to ask me something, or are you going to stare at my tattoos all afternoon?” John raised his right hand deliberately and scratched somewhere around his C5 vertebra, elbow pointing high in the air, all the muscles in his arm, side, and back suddenly coming into sharp definition as he flexed unconcernedly. Sherlock froze.

“Er—yes, I did have a question…” John’s lips quirked as Sherlock’s voice trailed off, as his eyes moved from the pattern of feathers on John’s back, over his deltoid and up his bicep, which was quite impressive, John thought modestly.

“Yes?” John prompted. His smile grew a bit broader as Sherlock cautiously ventured out from behind him, to stand slightly to one side with a look of intense absorption.

“Not important.” Sherlock’s gaze grew even more intense as he noted the gentle feathering of ink that just peeked over John’s shoulder. He reached a hand out, pads of fingers nearly touching John’s right clavicle. His glance darted to meet John’s. “May I?”

John brought his arm down and rolled his neck and shoulders a bit. “Sure.” He met Sherlock’s eyes again deliberately, moving his head just enough that he caught that galaxy-blue gaze, and smiled his most guileless, charming smile. Then he licked his lips. He distinctly heard Sherlock stop breathing, one, two, then a hitching breath in. Oh, yes, thought John, this might be it.

He knew that most people thought Sherlock asexual. He remembered with wry clarity the moment at Angelo's when Sherlock blocked his tentative foray with abrupt and slightly awkward coolness. Since then, however, John had seen much, much more. Sherlock's obsession with texture: smooth silk, soft cotton, comforting wool. His physicality: movements of a dancer, speed of a martial arts master, an almost instinctive knowledge of himself in relation to the objects around him. Most of all, however, John had seen the dropped glances, the turn of a flushed cheek, the surreptitious adjustment of trousers gone suddenly tight. Asexual, my angelic ass, he thought now, as Sherlock approached him slowly.

Sherlock’s eyes dropped once more, and his fingertips came down upon the first edges of the tattoo. It was John’s turn to catch his breath, and his eyes fell closed. It was all he could do not to shudder and gasp as Sherlock ran those long, ivory fingers along the edge of his wing. Oh, he had wanted this so much, for what seemed like so long, to feel Sherlock’s hands on him in a caress, that it was like a physical pain not to turn and grab and _take._ John knew patience, however. He knew the slow passing of years, and the absolute sweetness of deferred completion. He would wait for Sherlock to make it inevitable. And John felt that inevitability hurtle closer as Sherlock moved behind him to stroke with just one fingertip along the vanes of the scapulars, trailing through the series of coverts, and finally to the larger primaries, whose ends rested slightly below his hips—and were covered by his trousers. John felt his skin prickle and flame as Sherlock deliberately placed both his palms on John’s waist and drew them slowly down to meet the waistband of his jeans. He was close enough so that John could feel Sherlock’s breath stirring the rising hairs on his nape. John didn’t suppress his shiver this time, and let his head fall forward slightly, yieldingly.

“John,” Sherlock breathed. “I want to see all of them.” Sherlock’s hands were so large and so warm, and he was so close that John could feel the rest of his body heat as well; it was practically beating against his back, intense, enveloping. John slowly raised his hands and popped the button on his jeans. He tugged the zipper down slightly and ran his thumbs back under the waistband of his jeans and pants, sliding them down, until his hands met Sherlock’s and stopped. John stood there, electrified, anticipating, until he felt Sherlock’s fingers twine with his own and pull downward slowly, until his jeans hung as low as they possibly could without falling to the floor. For a long while, it seemed, they stood, John waiting, Sherlock looking. 

The first kiss was gentle, almost hesitant, and John felt the gooseflesh bloom along his back at the lightness of the touch, the warmth and unexpected softness of Sherlock’s lips against his shoulder. John couldn’t suppress a breathy moan, and the second kiss was surer, firmer. Sherlock’s hands tightened on his hips and John shivered again deliciously as he felt Sherlock’s tongue delicately trace the rachises of his scapular feathers.

“Remarkable,” Sherlock murmured once more against his skin, drawing his hands up John’s sides and tracing the outlines of the outer vanes, fingers pressing softly. “Exquisite,” Sherlock whispered, his breath making the fine hairs on John’s arms stand on end, his tongue sending shudders through John’s body as Sherlock drew his open mouth across his nape and down his spine where the outlines of his wings met, simultaneously smoothing his hands upwards again to John’s shoulders. 

“Sherlock,” John said softly, turning his head back over his shoulder, and all of a sudden Sherlock was there. His hands slid down John's arms, capturing his hands, holding them to John’s hips again, pressing his hardness against him, and his mouth came down over John’s with a groan of desire. God, that mouth, and the liquid swirl of his tongue, opening John’s lips and sliding in, then out so Sherlock could nip at his bottom lip. John wanted to turn, but Sherlock’s hands were firm on his hips and so John lost himself in the sensation of being held, thwarted, twisting his neck desperately to capture more of Sherlock’s mouth, pressing back firmly against Sherlock’s body, moaning into him as the kiss deepened and slowed. 

Sherlock loosened his hold on John’s right hip and pulled John closer still, stroking his hand up John’s belly to his chest, circling a nipple with his finger and teasing it softly into a hard nub. John felt exposed, laid open, even as he felt held, his back warm and supported but his front bared and accessible to Sherlock’s hands. He could feel his own erection straining at the front of his pants, hard and wanting, as Sherlock kept up his relentless assault on John’s mouth, exploring and claiming. John reached up and back to tangle his fingers in Sherlock’s silky hair, and Sherlock ground his hips into John’s, panting raggedly into his mouth. His hand came up to press John's face, pushing him further into their kiss, demanding more.

John was used to being in control. He was usually the aggressor in a relationship, the predator, the instigator. But this – this was something uniquely thrilling. He couldn’t remember the last time he had surrendered completely, but he felt his restraint slipping, and he craved it. He wanted to lose himself in Sherlock, to be surrounded, engulfed and filled up. With every small sound Sherlock made, John abandoned himself more to sensation, until the only things in the world were Sherlock’s body against him, his hands on John’s body, his lips and tongue. He was so immersed in touch that when Sherlock pulled away, John made a small sound of loss and swayed where he stood. Sherlock gently steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, and John opened his eyes at last to look at Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock’s lips were reddened, his eyelids half-shut, his eyes fixed on John with the intensity he usually reserved for the most utterly absorbing puzzle. He stepped back, stripped off his jacket and laid it over a chair, then started unbuttoning his shirt. 

“John,” he said, his voice like baritone honey, and John shivered a bit just at the sound of it. Sherlock smiled that little half-smile John loved. “John. Take off your clothes and get on the bed.”


	3. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's where it gets really smutty! I'd rate it an M (for Men Going At It) but it might venture into E, so be warned, ORAL SEX AHEAD. Oh yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, although I adore them, these characters belong not to me but to the immortal ACD as well as Messrs. Moffat and Gatiss, long may they live to torture us.

Chapter Three: Flight

 

All the tiny hairs on John’s body that weren’t already there suddenly sprang erect. He put his hands on his trousers and pushed down slowly, watching Sherlock watch him. As Sherlock tossed his shirt over his suit jacket, John palmed the hardness of his own cock, dimly noting the wet spot on the front of his pants, then shoved his pants and trousers out of the way and stepped out of them. Sherlock stood motionless, hands on his own flies, eyes narrowed and raking over John's body. His cheeks were slightly flushed, the rise of his pale, muscled chest came short and fast, and as John watched, the tip of Sherlock's tongue came out to wet his lush bottom lip. Their eyes met again, and John moved slowly backward, lowering himself onto his bed, sliding up until his head touched his pillow, one arm under his head, his legs slightly spread and open. He looked at Sherlock from under lowered lashes, putting as much heat into the gaze as he could, his free hand making its way unbidden to his cock and stroking slowly, lightly. 

 

Sherlock's attention was focused intensely on John, his left hand unzipping his trousers, his right hand absently stroking up his belly and chest to caress a nipple. John let his eyes roam over that expanse of pale skin, greedily taking it all in now that he had what amounted to permission. He knew Sherlock was well-muscled, with a lean and whippy physique, and he had spent who knew how many hours fantasizing about that body, but now that it was here before him he intended to LOOK. And admire. And bloody well worship. And oh, Sherlock did not disappoint. His gaze fairly burned into John's as he left off teasing and started easing his trousers down over his hips. He was wearing black silk knit boxers, smooth and fine, and they outlined every inch of what looked to John's experienced eye like a truly magnificent cock. 

 

John's own erection was getting more insistent under his hand. He was so intimately familiar with its arousal that he knew to slow his strokes, use a lighter touch, or the sight alone of Sherlock's gorgeous body would bring him too close to the edge for this early play. John's tongue darted out to wet his lips as Sherlock grabbed his own cock through the silk pants and squeezed, then smoothed the fabric again with his palm. Tease, John thought at him darkly, and was rewarded with that half-smile again and with the sight of Sherlock naked, at last, as he stripped off the silk boxers and began to stalk toward the bed. His cock was indeed magnificent; long and lean, like the man himself, flushed darkly pink along its length. It curved slightly upwards to a glans glistening with precome. And suddenly Sherlock's knees were on the bed. He dropped to his hands and crawled upwards along the length of John's body like a cat. He remained poised there, his hands to either side of John's shoulders, looking down at John, his eyes soft with want. Sherlock dropped his head to press a feather-light kiss to John's mouth, lingering there, softly nibbling with lips and teeth. John felt breathless, the weight of Sherlock's body just above him, a promise of heat and sensation. They were touching nowhere but their mouths, but John felt as if Sherlock was pressing his entire body hard against him, so intense was that gentle kiss. John dimly realized he was clutching sheet and pillowcase hard, his body tense, wanting to arch and thrust but also wanting that kiss never to stop.

 

Sherlock broke the kiss at last, pulling back to look into John's eyes, his own hazy and dark with desire. John whimpered in protest, but Sherlock just gave him a tiny, wicked smile and bent his head to look between them down the length of their bodies. John raised his head slightly to do the same, marveling at the beautiful curve of Sherlock's waist into his lush bum, and realized that Sherlock was slowly, slowly sliding down and forward, and then the tips of their cocks were touching and John lost all coherent thought.

 

_Sherlock oh god yes there more please yes oh SHERLOCK_

 

and John surfaced gasping "Wait...wait..." and with a shuddering breath he willed himself not to come too soon. "God you...feel so good. Want you. Oh god!" Sherlock's tongue licked a stripe down his neck to his collarbone, then across both tattooed shoulders, and suddenly Sherlock took John's mouth, it was the only way to describe it, and John wrapped himself around that glorious body, straining upward as Sherlock ground down, their legs entwined, arms clinging, hands stroking and grasping. Sherlock was absolutely fucking John's mouth with his tongue, strokes long and deep and then short and teasing, as his hands roamed John's body, investigating, delving. John could hear himself, moans and gasps and incoherent cries, but restraint was far past him now. He just wanted more, more of Sherlock, his tongue, his body, and he wanted it NOW. He could feel their cocks slide together with the silk of skin and the wetness of precome; he felt his orgasm gathering again, spiraling heat down the length of his spine, and pressed urgently closer to Sherlock. Sherlock seemed to sense his urgency, and with a last slide of his tongue ended the kiss, leaving John gasping, feeling as if his body were filled with embers at the edge of flame. Instead of pulling away, however, Sherlock shot John another of those wicked smiles and slid, kissing and licking his way down John's chest. He stopped at John's navel to swirl his tongue around and in, looking up the whole while to give John one of the most lasciviously burning looks he had been privileged to witness. John didn't know if his heart had actually stopped for a moment, but it started again trip-hammer fast as Sherlock abandoned his belly to seek lower, arms sliding under John's thighs, pushing up until John’s feet were flat on the bed. John watched as Sherlock took a moment to stop, seemingly rapt, eyes coming into focus again, and John thought that Sherlock looking, really looking, at his cock was one of the biggest turn-ons of his entire long life. His cock twitched in its nest of blond curls, and John thought he was going to pass out from the blood leaving his brain when Sherlock put his head down on John's thigh, nose millimeters from his cock, closed his eyes, and breathed. One deep breath in, and a hot, moist breath out directly to the center of John's lizard brain. Another. And another. Then, with John leaking so much precome that a puddle was forming on his belly, Sherlock, his eyes still closed, stuck just the tip of his tongue out from between those absolutely impossible lips and touched it to John's cock. Held it there, just tasting, for a long, long moment. Sighed, moved, and slowly rubbed soft, soft lips and cheek against him. John arched up wantonly into his touch with a low moan, eyes closed, head thrown back.

 

“God, John,” Sherlock said, that impossibly rich voice hushed, deep and dark and rumbling against John’s thigh, his legs, a whispering exhalation against his rigid cock. “God, John, I have wanted this.” He drew a shuddering breath, mouthing along John’s shaft. “Watching you, your strength, your-” a careful kiss, “-beauty,” and another, “-god your eyes, John, your mouth and your tongue.” His own flickered out, touched John’s frenulum. “Your hands. I want them on me, in me.” A stroke of hot, wet tongue that blazed like fire. “I want to make you come, to hear you cry out.” Another blazing stroke. “I want to take you apart, make you fall apart under me, John.” Just the tip of that tongue touched John’s glans, slid along the slit, and Sherlock hummed deep in his throat, his satisfaction plain. “I want you to make me fall apart in return.”

 

John was shaking, his hands clenched tightly in the sheets, his skin feeling hot and cold at once, as Sherlock’s words bored straight into his core and undid him, mind and body. He felt as if he were dissolving, opening. His every surface tingled and sang with awareness and he felt himself writhing, powerless, ceding control, trusting, at last, enough to let go. And Sherlock must have felt it, because at that moment he swirled his tongue up, around, and over the head of John’s cock, then plunged that luscious pink mouth down and over. John felt his cock engulfed in wet heat, felt the pull and drag of Sherlock’s lips and tongue, and when he felt his glans hit the back of Sherlock’s throat his orgasm slammed into him and he came, screaming out Sherlock’s name as he bowed up off the bed in ecstasy, the relentless waves of pleasure drawing him up, up, and finally down.

....

When he could move his limbs again, which seemed like it took hours but perhaps was a moment or two, John discovered that he lay on his back still. He breathed for a few seconds, just breathed. He became aware of a warm weight pressing against him, and opened his eyes. Sherlock was there, leaning on him, one arm wrapped around John’s leg and his chin on John’s knee. John felt his heart clench at the look on Sherlock’s face: equal parts sensuality, clinical interest, and uncertainty. He was looking at John, and when he saw John’s eyes open, Sherlock smoothed his expression into bland inscrutability.

 

John was having none of it.

 

“Come here,” John managed to whisper, and reached his right hand out. Sherlock blinked, sat up slightly, and slid around next to John. John reached up, and with his hand soft on the back of Sherlock’s neck, coaxed Sherlock down to lie with him, head on John’s right shoulder, silky curls brushing against John’s neck. John turned his own body to face Sherlock’s; he eased his leg over Sherlock’s bony hip and wrapped it around his thigh. John could feel Sherlock still hard against him, and shifted until he heard a swift intake of breath. As Sherlock got the hint and slowly slid his arm around to rest his palm at the small of John’s back, John brought his left hand up to cup Sherlock’s face.

 

“I’ve wanted you,” murmured John, “from the moment I walked into that lab.” He smoothed down the line of Sherlock’s jaw, trailed fingers down his neck and felt him swallow, hard. “You are so beautiful, Sherlock, I don’t think you have any idea.” His fingers traced Sherlock’s collarbone and trailed lower across his chest. “And yet it’s not simply how gorgeous you are that makes me want you.” John found his hand smoothing the sweet dip between Sherlock’s waist and hipbone, tracing swirls on the soft skin. Sherlock’s breathing quickened. “Amazing. Fantastic. Brilliant. It’s your brain, Sherlock, that makes you so extraordinary. Makes me follow you everywhere.” John turned his body further, reaching so his hand could stroke and cup Sherlock’s luxurious arse. “Makes me want to give myself to you, and to roll you over and fuck you hard.” Sherlock sighed, shivered, and pressed closer, a tiny rolling thrust into John’s hip. John smiled to himself.

 

With one quick movement, John pushed Sherlock over onto his back, still grabbing his arse with one hand, freeing his other arm, using his weight to hold him down. “My turn,” he breathed. He rubbed his whole body against Sherlock’s front, feeling the renewal of his own desire as Sherlock moaned at the contact. John kissed him fiercely, licking at his mouth and nipping gently at the cupid’s-bow curve of Sherlock’s top lip. “God, Sherlock, you are incredible.” John nibbled along Sherlock’s jaw; Sherlock tilted his head back, and John abandoned both arse and shoulder to cradle Sherlock’s head in his hands and kiss and lick down the beautiful line of his throat. Sherlock was panting now. John could sense Sherlock's control slipping and steadily pressed his advantage. “You are the most infuriating.” John paused to work his way down to Sherlock’s nipple, where he circled his tongue and made Sherlock arch and gasp. “The most maddening.” One of Sherlock’s hands was now fisted in John’s hair; the other gripped the sheets. John grinned against Sherlock’s chest, drawing circles and spirals with his mouth and tongue, moving lower. “The most…complex.” Sherlock grunted as John stuck his tongue in Sherlock’s belly button. “The most fascinating-” John felt Sherlock’s rigid cock pressing against his chest as he slid down between Sherlock’s legs; Sherlock’s fingers spasmed in his hair. “-and compelling man I have ever met.” Sliding down still further, he sucked one finger slowly into his mouth, as Sherlock watched, rapt; wet it to dripping with saliva; then used it to stroke up the deep blue vein on the underside of Sherlock’s cock. “And I am going to take you apart.”

Sherlock moaned as John's finger slid across taut skin. John was on the edge of raw excitement, feeling Sherlock's impending surrender, and his own breath quickened. Sherlock lay beneath him, splayed open, eyes closed and head tossing as he for once allowed his body ascendancy over his mind. John slid his hands slowly, carefully down between Sherlock's thighs, fingers tracing down the sweet crease of his groin, then turned his hands to slide under Sherlock's rounded bottom, using his thumbs to coax Sherlock's legs wider still. He felt the shudder run through Sherlock as just that quiet pressure made him gasp and cry out, a thin, strangled noise that shot straight to John's hardening groin. John made sure that Sherlock could feel his heat, his breath, before he bent close and ran his tongue where he had run his finger, moaning at the taste. Sherlock was dripping, and John suddenly couldn't get enough, lapping and sucking at the sides of Sherlock's erection, marveling at the silken softness and at the abruptly desperate noises Sherlock was making. John could just see Sherlock's face above the curve of his breastbone; he was flushed, shaking, breath catching, his eyes squeezed shut and his tongue touching that opulent upper lip as if it were John's. That vision made John growl softly, rut harder into the bed, and lean forward to take Sherlock's cock into his mouth as far as he could.

Oh, it was heavenly, blasphemy though that statement might be; for it seemed to John as if his mouth was meant for this cock, this cock for his mouth, and all other thoughts fled his mind as he let his instincts take over. One hand came up to clutch the base of Sherlock's cock with gentle firmness, and he twisted his mouth down and his hand up simultaneously, using Sherlock's precome and his own saliva to make that slippery twist delicious. Sherlock arched off the bed, John's name breathless on his lips, writhing in time to John's slow strokes. John was shoving himself into the bed to the same rhythm, making little moans deep in his throat at the doubled contact. Sherlock was shaking in earnest now, his whole body moving in shuddering waves, and John knew he was close. Just as he had that thought, John felt Sherlock’s cock hardening that little bit more, that lovely pre-orgasm stiffening, and he moaned shamelessly against it as it triggered his own orgasm. That small vibration was all it took, and Sherlock bent upwards in an exquisite bow under him, fingers tangled in John’s hair, shouting hoarsely as the pleasure shook him and he fell apart under John's careful hands.

 

 

___________________________

Coda

 

“Angel.” It was barely a whisper.

 

“Hmmm?” John stirred, his head on Sherlock’s chest. The room was darkening now, the day slipping into twilight. John sighed and squeezed closer to Sherlock’s side, content. It had been a fantastic afternoon.

 

“You’re an angel,” came the murmur again.

 

John came suddenly alert but was careful not to let his body react. Instead he chuckled softly and replied, “And you’re gorgeous.”

 

“No, I mean it literally. You’re an angel.” The soft voice was stubborn, relentless even, going on. “It all adds up. Your behavior. Your tattoos. Your…hair.” Sherlock smoothed his hand through John’s tawny locks. “I’ve been watching it, while the sun went down. It was… glowing, John.” 

 

John felt the steady beat of Sherlock’s heart under his hand. He opened his eyes and craned his neck a bit to look up at his…lover? _At last, this lover,_ he thought, looking searchingly at Sherlock’s face, unguarded in the dusk, gazing down on him. _Here is the one to whom I can tell every secret, and be unashamed._ Sherlock looked so young, so vulnerable, and there was a look at the back of his eyes that John didn’t remember seeing there before. Suddenly he made the connection: what had seemed like teasing between them, like arrogance or confidence, was actually its opposite. Sherlock hid his uncertainty behind that outward show, but for John, he was offering it up, and letting it go.

 

John sat up, turning to look down at Sherlock on his pillow, hair spread in a dark, curling nimbus. Sherlock reached up and traced the line of feathers that peeped over John’s shoulder, the edges of the scapular feathers that protected his coverts. John turned and placed a kiss on that hand, stilling it momentarily, while he gathered his thoughts.

 

“All my years on this earth, and no one has ever seen me for who I am. But you – you’ve really seen me, Sherlock. You’ve observed. And I’ve let my guard down for you, with you, in ways that haven’t happened before.” John swallowed, suddenly nervous. “Today, with you, I wanted to lose myself in you. I gave you control, I was yours. God, Sherlock, I haven’t ever—” He stopped, shook his head, frustrated.

 

“John.” Sherlock touched John’s jaw, enough to make him meet his eyes again. “You may have gathered that I don’t have a lot of…experience…with intimacy. I don’t let people close to me; but you, John, you…fit. WE fit. We complement each other. You’ve allowed me to see the world from a different perspective, one I had dismissed, considered irrelevant. And it’s more important than I had ever imagined.” Sherlock paused, looking away, then back. “You are more important. Everything you said about yourself can be equally applied to me. John, you touch me and I...liquefy, I simply cease to cohere, and there is no one else who can put me back together again."

 

They lay in silence for a moment, each contemplating the enormity of the other's words, seeking the truth and its reassurance in the other's eyes. John felt the rightness of it, felt his fragile shell dissolve and crumble under the loving weight of Sherlock's trust.

 

“Do you trust me, John?” Sherlock asked softly, fingers stroking tentatively along John’s clavicle. 

 

“Yes,” John said simply, capturing Sherlock’s hand in his own. 

 

“Will you show me?” 

 

John looked down, at this man who was suddenly the whole of creation, and smiled.

 

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my bloody fucking gods, it's finally done! I had serious trouble with this one, with nuances of tone and character, so thank you all for your patience. All comments will be lavished with fluffy kittens and authorial grovelling.
> 
> Raccoon, this is always and forever for you. I have so enjoyed pushing my boundaries for you; you can give me a prompt anytime. And Merry Christmas, darling!

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Hebrews 13:2. I have no regrets.


End file.
